Two posts in one day. Well, one day and one night. Still, it would seem I've gained a fan of sorts. As per my usual ritual, the letter, then the breakdown. To make things easier on all parties, I will start using bold print for incoming e-mails.
Dear Mr. Miller,
As an avid reader of your Internet - based autobiography I have to say that I remember those days back in 1973 when that cannibal terrorised the area around Hollywood. I wasn't more than eight or nine at the time, but I remember that my mom wouldn't let me out of the house after school. Actually she wouldn't even let me out of the house.
I couldn't think that the killer was a human. I always swore that it was a monster. I just refused to believe that a human could do such things. I suppose I should thank you for removing him. Thank you.
Of course, this means absolutely nothing to you. Your friend who took care of you in return for taking care of his mistake is probably reading this email (or hearing you read it to him over your cell phone) and laughing so hard his fangs'll fall off. How do I know this?
He screwed up. You fixed his mistake. You don't particularly want, or think you need thanks. But morality urges me to thank you. Glad that's over with then.
I won't comment more on the specifics of your story mostly as I'm typing this as I read your blog (I must say, a day - runner is an innovative way of getting around the sun. And it does benefit both parties. Of course, this is only based on you and Mr. Verdone), but more skim over your adapting to the change. From the sound of it you've been awake maybe a couple of months and sound as if you've lived through the whole period you slept. Fortunately for you, you missed several great travesties and innumerably dull years. I offer you sincere congratulations on missing every last one of them.
Sadly, my schedule compels me to cut this communication short (I have often entertained the idea of working at night, but alas, my work won't allow it) so let me say that it is a joy to read such a well - written and unique blog. I look forward to reading more of your posts,
Yours faithfully,
Mina Murray
P.S. I have always admired the writing style of Bram Stoker, despite his many fallacies.
And now, the glorious reply.
Dear Mr. Miller,
As an avid reader of your Internet - based autobiography I have to say that I remember those days back in 1973 when that cannibal terrorised the area around Hollywood. I wasn't more than eight or nine at the time, but I remember that my mom wouldn't let me out of the house after school. Actually she wouldn't even let me out of the house.
I couldn't think that the killer was a human. I always swore that it was a monster. I just refused to believe that a human could do such things. I suppose I should thank you for removing him. Thank you.
Forgive me, my dear, but either that is a typographical error, or your dates are off. The incident with Sean McCullough occurred in 1983, not 1973. I will assume this was merely a slip of the fingers, and leave it at that.
I appreciate your thanks, and you are most welcome. But you must understand that Eddie and I engaged Sean, not because we cared for mortals, but because we had the equivalent of a rabid dog on the loose, threatening to reveal what we perpetually work so hard to keep hidden. While I don't want to discourage you from writing, I also don't want you living under the illusion that literally risked my neck for anything other than the most selfish of motivations.
Of course, this means absolutely nothing to you. Your friend who took care of you in return for taking care of his mistake is probably reading this email (or hearing you read it to him over your cell phone) and laughing so hard his fangs'll fall off. How do I know this?
He screwed up. You fixed his mistake. You don't particularly want, or think you need thanks. But morality urges me to thank you. Glad that's over with then.
If I didn't care, I wouldn't reply. Worse, this reply could be dripping with utter disdain for you, as well as taking the foolish vampyric view that "humans are cattle." No, my dear...Despite the fact that our interests that night were motivated by self-preservation, your giving of thanks is welcomed.
As for reading this to Eddie...To be honest, Eddie wants nothing to do with this blog, and claims that he isn't reading it. To quote him, "You're gonna screw up, Chuck. When that happens, I don't wanna know nothing." Although the concept of him laughing his fangs off is quite amusing. Perhaps one day I'll share the joke about the vampyre that required dentures.
I won't comment more on the specifics of your story mostly as I'm typing this as I read your blog (I must say, a day - runner is an innovative way of getting around the sun. And it does benefit both parties. Of course, this is only based on you and Mr. Verdone), but more skim over your adapting to the change. From the sound of it you've been awake maybe a couple of months and sound as if you've lived through the whole period you slept. Fortunately for you, you missed several great travesties and innumerably dull years. I offer you sincere congratulations on missing every last one of them.
I should note that the existence of a day-runner is one that revolves around a specific fear: the loss of one's master. It appears to be convenient to both parties, but to the vampyre, it is merely a means to an end. To the day-runner, it could be utter terror.
On the surface, Eddie and Cheryl seem to have a casual relationship. Their teasing, arguing, and various other bits of banter often remind me of a married couple. And during the events revolving around Sean, I left out a specific scene that wasn't relevant at the time of its telling.
Eddie had come to my home to pick me up, leaving Cheryl to man my phones in my stead. The plan was to call her from a payphone as soon as the deed was done, and she would phone it in to our superiors from my place. (Eddie was too cheap to shell out the change to make the call to San Diego.)
They were in the doorway of my home, and I was standing by his car. The distance wasn't that far, and I couldn't help but overhear, what with having superior hearing and all that.
"Listen, you big lug," she said. "You better come back tonight. I'm not ready for that coma, and I'd only have a few days to give away all your money before it was just left to rot in the bank."
"What worries you more? The coma or the money?" he asked.
"The money, of course. You think I'm busting my hump every day because I care about you or something?"
There was a moment of silence as he gently caressed her face. I couldn't see his face, but could see hers. To be honest, I was feeling very much the voyeur as I stood there, watching and listening. It was a scene of unusual tenderness between what is literally a master and slave relationship.
Softly, he said, "I told you not to fall for me, you dumb broad."
In a voice equally as gentle, she replied, "You're the one who fell for me, you big lug."
"Yeah...maybe I did."
With that, he gave her a quick, soft kiss, and we were on our way.
Eddie is a fool. A big, mushy, romantic fool. He keeps seeking out one guy or another to embrace so that he can have more goons for his schemes, but the one he should take in is Cheryl.
I know what's stopping him, though. Vampyre couples tend not to last. The centuries roll on, and the couple eventually falls apart. From there, they may run into one another from time to time, and the idea of losing her all over again when she leaves would be too much for him. Better to lose her once, when she eventually dies of old age, than lose her again and again.
Then again, perhaps I am the same kind of sentimental fool.
I may have slept and missed many a travesty, but I seem to have awakened in time for the greatest bit of stupidity yet. Who, pray tell, elected this dolt George W. Bush, and why in the name of Hades are gas prices over $4.00 a gallon? I am still trying to piece together this bit of embarrassment for American history, and have yet to connect all the events. The pride I once felt at fighting to save the Union under Uncle Abe has all but evaporated as I watch this buffoon crash the economy into rocky ground.
Wisdom would indicate I go back to sleep for another 25 years. I stand a 50/50 chance things will improve.
Sadly, my schedule compels me to to cut this communication short (I have often entertained the idea of working at night, but alas, my work won't allow it) so let me say that it is a joy to read such a well - written and unique blog. I look forward to reading more of your posts.
Yours faithfully,
Mina Murray
Write a note to yourself, my dear. Working nights is not all that it's cracked up to be. This comes from a man who knows all too well.
P.S. I have always admired the writing style of Bram Stoker, despite his many fallacies.
Goodness! I haven't heard mention of Abraham Stoker in ages. Oh, we made him pay quite a price for his dalliance into our world, even in fiction. "Died: 20 April 1912." I think not. "His ashes were placed in a display urn at Golders Green Crematorium." Well, someone's ashes were placed there after the service.
No...Mr. Stoker eventually took his own life 1916. He was embraced during 1898, the year after Dracula was published, and was sentenced to attempt to survive without the aid of any other vampyre. Those who reigned over England at the time kept a distant eye on him, and it was well known that he despised living on the blood of others. On a clear night, he wandered away from any kind of shelter, and those assigned to watch him abandoned their posts when they realized they were getting too far from home to make it back before sunrise. Abraham's ashes were recovered the next night, and eventually exchanged with those that occupied the space at Golders.
But, yes...He was an excellent writer.
(Note from the author: Many thanks to CKG for the e-mail to which I responded.)
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